San Remo

San Remo

There was a time, I’m sure, when the wood of the
floor reflected the faces of guests more handsome than me.
I’m certain their elegant clothes hung off them just so, their idle
chatter much more distinct and relevant to the time; some flashed thick
stacks of Lire as they pondered the Roulette wheel a few miles up
the road.
There, the Casino stood much the way it does now—all flashing lights
and beckoning sounds.

Some strolled down to the shoreline, I suppose, their hands reaching
out for lovers and friends.
They spoke Italian and French, and German.
They spoke of politics and polite society,
pondered the winds of war shaking leaves back in their hometowns.
But mostly they cast die, flashed playing cards, and pulled
the thin handles of the slot machines-mesmerized just enough by the din
to stay a few moments longer before making their way back here.

Here.

I’m alone at 11:00 P.M.
The man at the desk speaks to me in Italian.
“Heineken,” I say, softly. Just one. He smiles and scurries to the bar.
Down the hall Daniele has made her way to bed
and I make my way to the empty room, choose a table
by the window and breathe the air rushing in from the sea.
I thumb my copy of






Paradise Lost,








and read eagerly
Lucifer’s lament upon looking down on Eden.

Staring out into the sea, now, I close the
book and consider my lament.

As close as I am to Eden,
with the sea passing through my skin,
a warm night open to the
stars,
my beautiful wife lying in wait for me—
I pull at the mouth of the bottle and sigh—
a selfish, little man,
tired and alone.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
There was nothing upon which to
gauge our loss.
Like eager tigers we put all grief
aside and made plans.
We would hike mountains.
We would swim in the ocean.
We would see France, and Genoa, and Portofino.

We bought tickets, made phone calls,
ordered brochures with colored pictures.
In a moment, we were off.
On the plane we read, held hands,
pulled one another close and rushed
across the sea.
In Nice, I considered Camu.
In San Remo, Calvino and the classics.

We drove like madmen across long
strips of road that played the song of
the wind to our open windows.
We laughed in Bordighera,
fought until we made love
in Dolce Aqua.
We ate with the sky coming up behind
us just so.

When we stumbled upon our little
chapel, with candles waiting to be lit,
(it was there where we reconciled
our pain).
The movement down the mountain was slower than
the climb. Slower than the climb.
I promised God I would return
once my son arrives.

Once my son arrives.

Grieve

Grieve

Routine serves its purpose.
Each day, it announces a list
of things to do:

Walk the dog.
Change the oil.
Go to the meeting.
Speak to the people.
Watch the news.
Buy the milk.

Sometimes, the list is
longer.
Sometimes, the order
changes just enough
to remind me:

Call the mother.
Speak to the sister.
Touch the wife.

Take time some time
to grieve.

It seems ridiculous to
me
this list.
It really doesn’t change
too much from day to
day.

But that’s my fault
isn’t it?

Should it not be
longer
this list?
Should it not
serve another purpose?

Touch the mother
Touch the sister
Press the wife close
to me.

And what of the father?

And what of the friend?

Sometimes they’re added
as well:

Speak to the father
Listen to the friend

And what of the
babies?

Go to the store.
Buy the roses-
they should be white.
Turn the soil.
Plant.

Each spring they promise
to bloom.
When alone in the yard
late in the evening
I can go to them.

In the morning I
can look out the window
and see them tossing in
the breeze.

They’ll swing back and forth
like babies on swings.
If I close my eyes I can hear
them laughing and calling to
me:

Daddy,
come and play with us.
Daddy,
take off your shoes
and feel the grass touch
your toes,
stop and listen to our
laughter.

Daddy,
will you wrap your arms
around us and pull us close?

Last night in a dream
I added to this list:

Kiss the mother
Hug the children
Remove the thorns
from my arms
Clean the blood
Lower the head

Allow myself to
grieve.

Antonio S. Caruso